


All the universe

by Nival_Vixen



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Complete, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Knives, Manipulation, Murderers, Psychopaths In Love, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 21:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7730314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nival_Vixen/pseuds/Nival_Vixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warren loves being able to twist young women to depend on him entirely. Then, when he's bored of them, he kills them.</p><p>He has his sights set on Layla, but Layla isn't as innocent as she seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moon and stars

**Author's Note:**

> Warren's character in this fic is partially based on his character from the TV show 'Chase' (Season 1, episode 9: 'Crazy Love') where his character manipulates young women to steal them away.
> 
> (Both Steven Strait and Danielle Panabaker are in that episode - I recommend you watch it if you can.)

The first time Warren had murmured about the moon and stars, hugging Layla in his arms, she laughed and pushed him away, calling him an idiot if he thought that line would work on her.

He'd blinked in surprise; it had worked on the last four girls he'd picked up and he'd used it to make them believe they loved him, each one tattooing a moon on their hand to match the stars on his own. It was fucked up and twisted, but he loved being able to make people fall in love with him, stringing them along until they were completely wrapped around him and his life, until they needed him to live, and then when he was bored and suffocated by their need, he'd kill them. Sometimes he'd be kind and let them be found at a gas station, other times, he'd do nothing more than leave their dead bodies by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. He was wanted in at least three states for seducing, manipulating, and killing these women.

Warren didn't have a criteria for what the women should look like. The first had been blonde with blue eyes, a Southern girl who called him hon and darl'. The second had been a brunette with brown eyes, a quiet girl that he'd seen in a shopping mall and couldn't resist speaking to her when he heard her speaking French under her breath. The third was Asian-American, and she taught him Korean, which had been surprisingly helpful when he was on the run. The fourth came from a South American family, had dark hair, olive skin and bright green eyes from some dormant gene in her family tree, and he learnt a mix of Spanish and Portuguese from her. Warren had a way with languages; it was something he was good at, besides seducing young women away from their lives only to kill them when he was bored later, and if he wasn't so fucked up in the head, he thought he might have enjoyed learning them properly and using it for some sort of career one day.

Layla had turned eighteen just last month, and it was the colour of her hair that had attracted him to her. She came from a family with little variety in their background, and as a result, only knew English fluently. Apparently, she'd taken Spanish at school, but apart from a basic 'hello', 'goodbye', and a myriad of numbers and colours, the language hadn't really taken with her.

Warren took Layla out on dates, letting her choose the places and allowing her control, just as he always did with his girls. He listened to her talk, made it seem as though he was interested in every single thing she was saying, just as he always did. It was easier for Warren to listen than to talk for himself, because he gathered more information that way, learned what these women loved and hated about their lives, and when the time was right, he would use that information against them and use it to convince them to leave with him.

He always told them that he would never restrict them in the way their old lives had, and so far, Warren had never lied. He might have persuaded them to leave with him, killed them, but he'd never once lied to his girls. He'd even taught two of his girls how to drive (each time in a stolen car, another vice of his), laughing at their exhilaration as they finally did something that their parents had never allowed them to do. Each time, they'd thanked him with words, with kisses, with their bodies. Layla already had her license, but had no real interest in driving despite the freedom it offered. She was an environmentalist and usually took a bus or walked to her destination.

Despite his usual qualms about talking, Warren found himself talking to Layla, and worse, telling her the  _truth_. He had a deadbeat father that was put in jail when he was a kid, resulting in anger issues that were sky high, and his mother worked three jobs just to feed and educate him. It also meant that she was subsequently too tired to spend time with her child, but he didn't blame her for anything. He knew that his issues were his own.

Layla came from a single-parent family as well, but her father had died when she was young, and her mother had been given a payout that ensured she only needed to work one job to keep them financially stable. She had a good education, a mother that loved her, and some friends that Warren made sure to meet, praising each of their virtues and silently filing away their flaws for when he'd need them most.

When Layla fought with her mother about seeing Warren, she called him, crying on the phone as she asked him to come pick her up. He agreed, soothing her with calm words to stop her tears, and promised he would see her in a few minutes. He didn't stop smiling for the whole ride over, knowing that this would be the catalyst to convince Layla to leave with him.

He stepped out of the car with a concerned expression on his face, and looked up to Layla's window. She saw him and waved, then stepped out of the window and onto the roof. Warren watched as Layla made her way across the tiled roof quietly, then climbed down the trellis on the side of the house. He was somewhat surprised at how fast and certain she'd been, and had to wonder if she'd done something similar before.

She greeted him with a smile and a kiss, her fingers curling into his short hair as she bit and nipped at his lips. It was something she'd never done before and, just like the roof, he hadn't expected it from her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, making sure to inject enough emotion into his voice to come across as caring rather than suffocating.

She shook her head. "Not really. I just want to get out of here."

"Are you sure? We can go in and talk to your mother together, if you'd like? I might be able to answer her questions."

"I doubt she'd let you in the door, and she doesn't know I've snuck out, so let's just go before I get in even more trouble," Layla muttered.

As always, Warren let Layla make her own decisions, and he opened the passenger door for her. He was so very good at this part, and he didn't even have to try to act when he slid into the driver's seat and looked to Layla.

"Where would you like to go?"

"I want to go dancing and get drunk," she said decisively.

Warren grinned and turned on the ignition. "I know just the place."

The warehouse was a few minutes outside of town, and if not for the myriad of cars parked outside of the building, it would have looked abandoned. Warren parked the car and was out of the door to open Layla's in a matter of seconds. She smiled up at him brightly, and let him help her out of the car.

"Ready?"

Layla nodded and kissed him before taking his hand and heading towards the warehouse. The closer they neared, the more music they could hear, and the sound vibrated against the tin. Inside of the warehouse, it was even louder, people yelling over the music to each other. Warren put his arm around Layla's shoulders and guided her over to where the temporary bar was set up. He ordered two beers, handing one to Layla and watching with a barely repressed grin as she took it cautiously.

"Can you open it for me, Warren?" Layla asked, eyes wide as she held the bottle out to him.

He nodded, taking it and twisting the top off in one solid motion before handing the bottle back. Layla kissed him in thanks, then stepped back and started drinking down the beer.

"Whoa, not so fast. You'll be drunk before we even get to dance," Warren said, pulling the beer bottle away from her mouth gently.

Layla grinned and turned to look out at the dance floor. "Think there's room for us to dance?" she asked, the sea of writhing bodies seeming to encompass the whole warehouse.

"We'll make room," Warren promised in her ear, pressing a kiss to her neck.

Layla turned to face him, and with a grin, she drank down the rest of her beer, spluttering slightly. Warren drank down the rest of his as well, waiting for Layla to make the next move. She took their empty bottles, set them down on the bar, and led him out onto the dance floor. As soon as there was enough space for them to move, Layla started kissing him eagerly, her tongue sliding into his mouth as she moved them so his leg was slotted between hers. Warren groaned against her mouth, sliding his leg so it pressed up against her, their bodies moving with the tide of music and people around them.

They danced and kissed and drank some more. Eventually, Layla pulled away with glassy eyes and put her mouth close to Warren's ear, her lips brushing against his skin with every word. "Let's get out of here."

Warren nodded and led her through the crowd and outside. Layla stumbled away from Warren and into the darkness beside the warehouse. He heard her retching and followed the sound to take care of her like a caring and loving boyfriend would do.

"You all right, Lay?" he asked, brushing her hair back from her face.

She stood up a lot faster than he expected, and like she had done in the club, Layla moved them so that his leg was between hers with his back was pressed up against the warehouse's corrugated wall. Warren blinked, the alcoholic haze fading away as he realised that something was different. A knife; she had a  _knife_  pressed up against his stomach.

_Well. Layla was certainly full of surprises tonight, wasn't she?_

"You're going to keep quiet and you're going to drive us out of here like nothing's wrong, got it?" Layla said fiercely, the knife pressing in.

He laughed then, nothing like his usual fake laugh that Layla was so used to hearing. This was his real laugh, the one he let loose when his girls were dying and he knew the end was near. It was a laugh that sent chills up their spines and goosebumps to break over their flesh, even as they fought to stay alive for that one moment more.

Layla frowned slightly, but she didn't ease her grip on the knife one iota.

"You've got no idea who you're threatening, baby," Warren said, a warning lacing his tone even as he turned them around so Layla was the one pressed up against the wall instead.

She gasped breathlessly, tilting the knife so the tip was against his ribs. Warren just grinned at her.

"That thing's not gonna stop me, baby," he promised, twisting her arm and the knife away from his body and crowding up against her like he had in the club only five minutes ago.

"You think that's the only weapon I've got?" Layla sneered.

"Oh, fuck, I hope not, baby," he breathed, kissing her and thrusting his tongue into her mouth eagerly.

Layla kissed him back just as eagerly, both of them fighting for dominance over the other. She twisted out of his grip in a move that surprised Warren yet again, and he turned to smirk at her.

"Well? Are you going to stare at me all night or kill me?"

Layla let out a noise of pure frustration, pulling out another knife from god knew where, and stalked forward to stab at his shoulder. Warren grabbed her wrist tightly, his fingers squeezing hard enough to bruise, and Layla kicked at his shin. She could have kneed him in the balls and taken him down, but Warren didn't think that she wanted to kill him anymore after all. He tugged her closer, hand still wrapped around her wrist, and dug his fingers into her hip, pressing her lithe little body up against his. She struggled for a moment, cursing under her breath, then surged forward and kissed him again, dropping the knife to the ground. Warren let go of her wrist, lifted her up so she could straddle his waist, and squeezed her ass as she gyrated up against him.

In the club, their movements had been somewhat stilted, both of them putting on an act, but now, they were both free and she was cursing at him between breaths and he was ripping her knickers to thrust his fingers inside of her, their movements wild and raw, both of them reduced to panting and single syllables. Layla tore open his jeans, her hand wrapped around his aching cock a heartbeat later, and she didn't go slow, she didn't try to ease any pain he'd have without lubrication, and she stripped him back until he was coming so hard he saw spots behind his eyes, his mouth latched onto the curve of her neck and marking her as his in a way the stupid tattoos never had. Layla cried out his name as she clenched around his three fingers, warm wetness coating his fingers, and her own fingers scratching up his back until he bled.

When they were both sated, chests heaving as they tried to even out their breathing, Warren and Layla looked at each other. There was something in her eyes that he'd never seen before, but fuck, did he want to keep seeing it.

"So... I'm guessing you're not who I thought you were?" Layla asked, moving off him to straighten her clothes and pick up her fallen knives.

"Could say the same about you, baby."

"Don't call me baby," she snapped.

"Fine then,  _hippie_."

She didn't seem to have an issue with that name, and Warren smirked.

"How many people have you killed?" he asked her.

"You first," she said, hand gripped on her knife.

"Five. You?"

"Three," Layla replied.

"Want to double it?" Warren asked.

"How?" she asked warily.

"Come with me, and we'll kill them together."

Layla seemed to consider him for a moment, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time, and Warren waited patiently, as he always did with his girls.

"We'll trial someone from inside first. If I say no, you let me go, and I do the same with you, deal?" Layla offered.

"Deal," Warren agreed with a broad grin, and Layla shook his offered hand with a firm grip.

Layla led the way into the warehouse once more, and this time they both waited by the bar, looking out at their potential victims. Layla seemed to find someone, nudging Warren in the side and indicating towards the girl.

"Purple haired chick?" he clarified, getting a nod in return.

Layla grabbed his hand and they headed over to where the purple haired girl was dancing, slotting themselves around her as if they did this sort of thing all the time. The girl seemed surprised, but she was inebriated enough to not protest or push them away. Layla grinned and drew her in close, kissing her as Warren watched, rocking his hips up against the girl from behind. She agreed to leave with them as soon as Layla suggested it.

The music drowned out the girl's screams, Warren holding her as Layla buried her knife in her five times, making sure to twist the blade on the way out each time. Warren dropped the girl's lifeless body to the gravel floor beneath them, and pulled Layla in close to kiss her again. She kissed him back eagerly, blood dripping from her knife.

"Where to next?" Layla asked, grinning.

"Wherever you like; ladies first," he replied with a grin of his own.

...


	2. Stars shine

The first time was an accident, so Layla didn't count it in her grand total. Layla and Will had been playing in the playground, just at an age where they no longer needed to be supervised, and he'd teased her for making a daisy crown when she could have been on the swings or slide instead. Layla had ignored him, Will had stolen her crown and run off, and she yelled at him before running after him to get her crown back. Will had tripped over the wooden frame of the playground, fallen forward and smacked his head into the rocking horse on a spring. He didn't get up.

Layla had heard others screaming, parents and children calling out, rushing over to see what could be done. She had simply stood there and stared, watching as the life faded from his eyes all too quickly, his small hand still clutched tightly around her daisy crown. Will's parents were distraught with grief. Layla refused to talk for several weeks, unsure of what she would say when she found her voice again, and her mother had been worried enough to use some of their grocery money to take her to a psychologist.

The woman she met had a fake smile, asked her about her feelings, asked her to write or draw if she didn't feel like talking. Layla took the paper and coloured pencils, and for the next solid hour, she drew a daisy crown that had more life to it than Will did now. The psychologist didn't know the particulars of Will's death, just that her friend had died in front of her, and took the daisies as a positive sign.  _They were the sign of wanting a fresh start_ , she told her mother, who had their tiny house packed up and sold within a month.

...

The real first time, Layla was fifteen, and she let a nice boy take her out before she took him out in another way entirely. He thought that because they'd eaten dinner together, because she smiled at him once or twice, it gave him some sort of right over her body. Layla played her part well, pretending to be as interested as he assumed, and had him drive them to a nearby construction site to be alone. The trip should have taken ten minutes, but thanks to the nice boy's eagerness, they arrived in five. Layla was out of the car before he could reach over to grab her, and he followed her without hesitation. She smiled at him once more, then shoved him back towards a pile of bricks. Just like Will, he fell and he didn't get up. Layla kneeled down beside him, watching his face curiously and waiting until the last speck of life had disappeared.

She called her mother, a hysteric note to her voice when she told her that he'd tried to hurt her, she'd defended herself, and he fell -  _oh god, mummy, he's not getting up, there's blood! What do I do? What do I do?_  - and once her mother knew where she was, she told Layla to hang up, call the police, and promised that she'd be there in five minutes. (She arrived in fifteen.) Layla did as instructed, keeping her voice with the police on the same note as she had with her mother, and once she knew the police were on their way, Layla hung up and let the phone fall beside her. She ripped her dress as if she'd fought off the nice boy, and waited for her mother and the police to arrive.

...

The next time was planned. She was sixteen, chose another nice boy during a party. She was wearing a blonde wig and no one was sober enough to recognise her an hour into the party. The boy was from a town over, and Layla gave him a fake name, address, and only contacted him using a burner phone she'd bought on her last family trip to New York. They texted exactly three times before he asked her to send nudes, and Layla responded by telling him how much she  _loved_  hiking. It was easy to convince him to go off the path and deeper into the forest, to stop to tie her shoelace while he found somewhere suitably flat to fuck her. It was just as easy for her to pick up a rock and smash it into the back of his head.  _It was so much better than simply **watching** them die_ , Layla thought to herself. But then, she'd always been a more hands-on kind of person.

There was no convenient clearing nearby, but there was enough space between a few trees for what she had in mind. Layla took out the folded square of plastic sheeting she'd packed alongside her water bottle and sandwich, spread it out and set it in place with several rocks, then put an anatomy book nearby, and pulled out the knife she had purchased a state over a few months earlier. Layla knew that she wouldn't have been able to overpower him on her own with simply the knife - not without practice anyway - so instead, she used the next few hours to practice slicing the boy to pieces, keeping the blood and mess to the confines of her plastic sheet. There were no other hikers this far up, the day was far too overcast and there were meant to be storms that evening, so she knew that most people wouldn't be bothered to hike this late in the afternoon.

By the time Layla was satisfied with her work almost two and a half hours later, she knew just where to slice to make someone bleed to death, how to apply enough pressure to bruise without breaking the skin, how blood leaked and oozed and trailed down in so many fascinating lines, and her outfit was completely ruined.  _Rigor mortis_  was starting to set in, his neck so stiff that she could barely move his head, so Layla spent the next twenty minutes cutting his limbs off to put into the black plastic bags she'd packed. It was hard and messy work, but once she was finished, the bags were tied to the side, and not a spot of blood was to be seen. Storm clouds rolled in overhead, and Layla ate her sandwich with blood-covered hands.

She had underestimated just how heavy carrying multiple bags with limbs, torso, and a head would be, and Layla was caught in the storm's heavy downpour on the way to her car. It wasn't refreshing, there was no celebration, or head tipped back towards the heavens like the movies and TV shows showed; instead, she spent the extra twenty minutes cursing heavily and slipping in mud, the bags made heavier with the rain pelting on top of them. Layla finally managed to get the wet garbage bags in her backseat, and once she'd used the rain to wash off the most obvious bloodstains from her hands, body, and outfit, Layla started driving towards the state line.

They never found his body, the boy presumed run away, and thanks to her fake  _everything_  that she had given to the boy, none of his friends knew the truth about her either. Layla was jumpy for a few weeks, but soon relaxed again, confident that she had gotten away with it.

...

The next time, it was three months after her seventeenth birthday. Layla had been desperate to kill again for almost six months, but she forced herself to wait. She could not be caught; she refused to let herself be caught. Layla chose a boy while she was out at a rave. He leered at her, tried to buy her a drink despite her negative response, and spat curses at her when she tried to leave. Remembering the switchblade in her clutch, Layla smiled to herself, and turned around to face the boy. With her knife digging into his side, just below the ribs to cause pain and a fair amount of bleeding, the boy drove them away from the rave as per her instructions.

She slit his throat even as he begged for his life. It was even messier than the last boy (there was another outfit ruined), but ultimately more rewarding. She held his neck, felt the blood pouring over her fingers and palm, sliding down to drip off the curve of her wrist, and watched as every last bit of life drained from his eyes. Layla made sure that her bloody fingerprints were the first things she cleaned from the boy's dead body. This time she used a hacksaw to cut his limbs and head, taking less than an hour to bag everything up. The sun was starting to rise, the rays warm on her face as she loaded the garbage bags into the trunk of her car.

She used back roads to end up three towns over, a larger city where no one knew anyone. With a short blonde bob wig on her head, a baseball cap, and a pair of overalls to cover her blood-splattered outfit, and Layla felt sure that not even her mother would recognise her disguise. She dumped the bags in different skip bins throughout the town, and kept to the speed limit as she left the small metropolis, not wanting to be pulled over and have blood found in her car.

Layla cleaned her car at an automatic carwash, sitting in the vehicle and closing her eyes as the machine cleaned any evidence from the outside of her car. She waited patiently as the wash cycle finished, and then drove home, singing along to the radio and still covered in blood underneath the overalls.

...

For her eighteenth birthday, Layla bought a set of knives as her gift to herself. They were professional ones, designed for the kitchen, though she had a very different purpose in mind. Overall, her eighteenth birthday passed quietly; her mother working late and her friends in a desperate rush to finish last-minute assignments and cram for finals. Layla didn't mind, spending most of the time testing the weight of her new knives and making sure she could wield them without injuring herself.

A month later, when her friends suggested they go out to a local bar to celebrate her birthday properly, Layla didn't hesitate to agree. Maybe a night of drinking and dancing would stop the itching under her skin, the urge to wrap her hands around someone's throat, to bury a knife between their ribs.

Her friends insisted on buying drinks for her, announcing to everyone in their general vicinity that it was Layla's birthday so she'd get offers of free alcohol by others in the bar. A few of the men leered at her suggestively and Layla chose to ignore them, though she wished she'd brought one of her bigger knives, rather than the small, slender one that fit in her clutch. She joined her friends on the dance floor, a few of them eyeing off the men and women around them.

"He's married, Gracie," Layla said when one of her friends suggested a particular man standing by the bar.

"How do you know?" Gracie replied, frowning.

"He's got the indent from his wedding ring on his left finger, and just swapped the ring for his right hand."

"Ugh, damn. Ooh, how about him?" she asked, nodding over to a young man that had just walked in.

Layla glanced over to where Gracie had indicated and blinked in surprise. Forgetting all about the leering men from earlier, Layla saw this man and simply  _had_  to have him. She wanted to kill him, a yearning in her unlike any other. Gracie smirked at Layla knowingly.

"You want this one, huh? Want me to be your wingwoman?"

Layla shook her head and turned her gaze away. She couldn't trust her own voice just yet, sure she'd do something stupid like admit why she  _really_  wanted him.

"Aww, you're shy; you must really want him. Want me to go hit on him for you, instead?" Gracie offered.

Layla shook her head again. She licked her lips, hesitant for a moment. "He'll come to me. It's my birthday, after all."

Gracie laughed boisterously. "If you say so, sweetie."

Layla put him out of her mind for the moment, though she found herself unable to resist glancing over every few minutes. He leaned against the bar, jeans taut around his legs and shirt stretching over his chest, his hair was cropped short, and he wore a leather jacket that had seen better days. He pretended not to notice her gaze, though she could feel his on her too.

"Oh god, I'm taking you over there myself. I can't stand the UST," Gracie muttered, grabbing her hand and leading Layla over to the bar.

"What? Gracie,  _no_ ," Layla hissed, cheeks heated.

Gracie just grinned and kept on walking. Layla could have easily taken her arm back from her friend, but decided that this might be easier than waiting for him after all. Gracie stopped them in front of the stranger, and he looked between them silently, his gaze hot and lingering on Layla.

"This is my friend Layla; she just turned eighteen last month and she's interested in you. Who're you, how old are you, and are you interested in her?"

The stranger seemed a little surprised at Gracie's forceful words and attitude, but most people were. He looked at Layla again, then licked his lips.

"Good to know. Warren, twenty-four," he added, glancing to Gracie, then back to Layla. "Yes, I'm interested."

"Good. Now, you two kids have fun. Do  _everything_  I'd do," Gracie added in a stage-whisper to Layla, winking as she left them alone.

They slipped into silence and Warren watched her as if he was waiting for something. Realising that she hadn't even spoken yet, Layla quelled her desire to grab the knife on the other side of the bar - the bartender had been slicing up a lemon or a lime, perhaps - and stab it directly into Warren's chest just to see him bleed. Too many witnesses and besides all that, her friends were meant to think she could be innocent of any such crime.

"Sorry about Gracie, she can be a little forward when it comes to... well, anything, really."

"So I noticed. You don't have to apologise, unless you don't mean what Gracie said," he added.

"Huh?"

"She said you're interested, are you?" Warren asked.

Layla looked into his dark eyes, imagined the light fading from them under her hands or one of her knives, and nodded. "Very interested."

"Good. Would you like to sit down?" he offered, looking to the bar stool next to him.

Layla sat next to him, Warren turning and sitting on the seat he'd been leaning against and offered to buy her a drink. Layla shook her head, but noticed a small crescent moon on his hand.

"Why a moon?" she asked, indicating to the tattoo.

Warren grinned, as if he had a private joke with himself, but settled down on the stool and answered. "Mostly so pretty women will ask me about it."

Layla rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling as well.

They talked for a few more hours, and when the bartender announced final call, Warren offered to drive Layla home. Despite Gracie's wolf-whistle as they left the bar together, they didn't do much of anything except one heated kiss on the porch. Layla was a little disappointed, but Warren was a nice man and over the course of the night, they'd swapped numbers and agreed to go on a date during the day.

Layla hadn't honestly expected Warren to follow through with his promise to text her, but the next day at 8am she received a text from him thanking her for the night before and hoping to see her again soon. She recognised that he was leaving it fairly generic and open-ended, giving her an option whether to reply or not. Half an hour later, they'd agreed to a time and place for their first date. Layla wanted this one to last longer than the ones before, she wanted to see if it felt different killing a man she'd dated and kissed and fucked. She didn't think there'd be much difference, honestly.

...

Warren was attentive, sweet, caring, and all together fairly boring. They went on dates to places she chose, he only kissed her once she initiated it, and listened to every word she spoke. Layla had to coax conversation from him like her mother might coax out a frightened kitten, but she eventually learned about Warren's gaoled father and hard-working single mother, though both lived in different states.

Two months into their relationship, Warren hugged Layla from behind, pressed a kiss to her neck and asked if she'd be the stars to his moon.

"You must think I'm an idiot if you think that line's going to work on me," Layla had replied with a laugh.

Warren had laughed, but had become even more caring and sweeter ( _more boring_ ) than before, something that Layla hadn't thought possible. She determined that the leather jacket and tattoo were for appearances only, because he was the furthest thing from a bad boy that Layla had ever known. Her mother, however, took those things in at a glance and judged Warren immediately. There had been few fights between them when Layla was growing up, as she'd been grateful for her mother's work and love, but it seemed Warren would be the cause of one of their biggest fights.

"He's six years older than you, Layla! He's only looking for one thing, and when he gets it, he's going to break your heart! I don't want you hurt like that, I'm just trying to look out for you!"

Layla bit back her own response that she was only looking for one thing too, as it was a very different kind of thing than what her mother was talking about. "I don't care! If he breaks my heart, then it's my own fault. I'm dating Warren, and you can't stop me! I'm eighteen now!"

"You're too young for - "

"For what?  _To live?_  I'm an adult! I can legally drink and drive a car, and I'm going to college next year! I think I'm old enough to date whomever I want!"

"Just when were you going to tell me you're going to Princeton, by the way, young lady? Don't think I don't know about it just because you've hidden the letters! They're on the other side of the country!"

"We're not talking about that!" Layla snapped.

"Don't speak to me like that! You're still living under my roof, so you'll do as I say! Now, go to your room!" her mother snapped back.

Layla could have argued some more, but she stormed upstairs, closing and locking her bedroom door instead. She rang Warren, tears in her eyes as she sobbed and told him that she and her mother had had a fight about him. He soothed and calmed her and promised to see her in a few minutes. Layla ended the call, fixed her makeup, and set about fixing her knives to various places around her body, the sheaths shielding the knives from her skin.

Warren rang to let her know he was outside, and she looked out to see his red car sitting idle in front of the house. Layla climbed out of her bedroom window, taking care not to let her mother know she was leaving, walked across the roof and climbed down the side trellis. She hurried to the car, smiling at Warren where he waited by the passenger door for her. She kissed him, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck and she bit at his bottom lip firmly; after tonight, Warren's face and their kisses would only be a memory.

"Are you all right?" Warren asked.

Remembering the fight a moment too late - she should have waited to kiss him until later, _damn_ \- Layla shook her head. "Not really. I just want to get out of here."

"Are you sure? We can go in and talk to your mother together, if you'd like? I might be able to answer her questions."

"I doubt she'd let you in the door, and she doesn't know I've snuck out, so let's just go before I get in even more trouble," Layla muttered, wanting the night to get started sooner rather than later.

Warren nodded in understanding and opened the passenger door for her, going around to the driver's seat. "Where would you like to go?"

"I want to go dancing and get drunk," Layla said, deciding that it would be easier to coerce Warren away from whatever club they went to if he was intoxicated.

"I know just the place."

Layla was surprised when Warren pulled up in front of a warehouse. It was obviously more than that, considering the myriad of cars that were parked outside. As Warren opened the car door for her, she could hear the club music reverberating against the warehouse's tin walls.

"Ready?" Warren asked once she was standing and the car had been locked.

Layla nodded and kissed him firmly, her fingers brushing against the hilt of one of her knives at her thighs. She was definitely ready. She took his hand and lead him towards the warehouse entrance, the music getting louder with every step.

It was even louder inside the warehouse, people yelling to each other over the music. Warren put an arm around Layla's shoulders and guided her over to the bar. He ordered two beers, obviously looking to get her drunk as well for whatever reason - she thought of her mother's words about men only wanting one thing, and wondered if Warren really wanted to get her drunk to have sex with her after four months of dating.

She decided to play with him a little, and cautiously took the beer as though she'd never seen one before. Layla asked Warren to open her beer with wide eyes; she was an innocent girl who couldn't open a twist-top, so she was harmless. Layla kissed him in thanks, and started to drink her beer, but Warren pulled it away from her gently.

"Whoa, not so fast. You'll get drunk before we even get to dance," Warren said.

Layla had out-drunk Gracie at her friend's eighteenth birthday party just the month before, and while she didn't enjoy the taste, she knew that she could hold her liquor better than Warren knew. She grinned and turned to look at the dance floor. It was full of people, barely any room between most, and it seemed as though there wasn't enough room for two more people to join in.

"Think there's room for us to dance?" she asked.

She was a little startled when Warren pressed himself against her back, his mouth against her ear. Layla wondered what had gotten in to him; _maybe the thought of getting her drunk and fucking her really turned him on or something? Ugh, she was even more glad to be killing him now_.

"We'll make room," Warren said, moving to press a kiss to her neck.

Turning to face him, Layla drank down the rest of her beer in one shot, only spluttering when the foam caught in her throat. Warren drank all of his beer as well, a smirk teasing at his lips as he waited for her. Layla put their empty bottles on the bar and pulled him out to the dance floor. She started to kiss Warren eagerly, hoping to get the real entertainment started sooner rather than later, her tongue sliding into his mouth, and moving so she straddled his leg. Warren groaned against her lips and rocked his leg so it pressed up against her. She was thankful he kept his hands where they were, or else he might've felt the knives bracketing her thighs.

They went back to the bar for more drinks, Layla taking up the empty bottle of beer to make it look like she'd had more than two beers; Warren didn't even notice.

Guiding Warren back to the dance floor, Layla worked to make her movements more drunken than they really were. She smiled up at him, moving her mouth close to his ear so he'd hear her. "Let's get out of here."

Warren didn't even hesitate, nodding and leading her through the crowd to get outside as fast as possible. Layla stumbled away into the dark alley beside the warehouse, pretended to retch up her lousy two beers, and grabbed one of her knives.

"You all right, Lay?" Warren asked, brushing her hair back from her face.

She stood up in a shot, using the element of surprise to slam him back against the warehouse wall, his leg between hers and her knife pressed up against his stomach. Layla watched as realisation dawned over Warren's face, and waited until he looked at her properly.

"You're going to keep quiet and you're going to drive us out of here like nothing's wrong, got it?" Layla said fiercely, the knife pressing in.

Warren laughed. She'd heard him laugh a lot over the last four months they'd been dating, but this laugh was nothing like those. This laugh sounded more like the feeling that built up in her when she saw people dying, and though she was confused, Layla wasn't stupid enough to let her grip on the knife ease.

"You've got no idea who you're threatening, baby," Warren said, and they turned so suddenly that Layla wasn't aware what had happened until the warehouse wall hit against her back instead.

She gasped breathlessly, face twisting into a snarl as she tilted the knife so the tip was pressed up against his ribs. Warren just grinned at her.

"That thing's not gonna stop me, baby," he promised.

Layla winced as Warren forcefully twisted her arm, directing the knife away from his body. He crowded up against her like they'd been in the club only five minutes ago.

"You think that's the only weapon I've got?" Layla snarled at him.

"Oh, fuck, I hope not, baby," he breathed.

Then he was kissing her, and thrusting his tongue into her mouth eagerly. It wasn't even like their heated kisses in the club, the ones designed to fool and lure, this one was a fight for dominance and Layla wasn't going down without one hell of a fight. Then, while Warren was still caught up in their kiss, she turned and twisted out of his grip, breathing heavily as she watched him. Warren turned to face her, smirking at her smugly.

"Well? Are you going to stare at me all night or kill me?"

Layla growled in frustration, pulling out another knife from the holster at the back of her thigh, and stalked forward to stab at his shoulder. Warren grabbed her wrist tightly to stop the knife from reaching its destination, and Layla kicked out, aiming for his shin. She could have kneed him, taken him down easily in one shot since he'd left himself wide open, but Layla was curious to see what else her supposedly innocent boyfriend could do. Perhaps the tattoo and leather jacket were less of a façade than she thought.

Warren tugged her closer, his fingers digging into her hip and Layla was surprised enough to gasp. Then she fought back again, struggling to get out of his firm grip and cursing at him under his breath. Realising that he wasn't going to let her go, that she would be disappointed if he did let her go, Layla moved forward to kiss him just as fiercely as he'd kissed her a moment ago. Her grip on the knife hilt finally eased, but she barely heard as it hit the gravel below them. Warren let go of her wrist long enough to lift her up, his hands grabbing against her ass, and Layla gyrating her hips against his waist eagerly.  _This_  is what she'd been missing, what had made everything in the last four months so boring and plain; she  _needed_  pain with her pleasure, Layla realised.

They moved against each other in a way that they hadn't in the club, tearing at each other's clothes until Warren had two fingers curled inside her and Layla's hand was wrapped around his dick, stripping him back as he thrust his fingers into her cruelly, a third joining the other two and making her cry out as he worked his thumb against her clit. She used her free hand to scratch at his back, keeping Warren close as her other hand tightened around his cock, their hard breaths the only sound apart from the distant music from the warehouse.

Layla bit her lip when she felt her orgasm building. She worked his cock harder, squeezing his length in sync with the movements of his fingers. Layla arched against Warren as he flicked and rubbed her sensitive clit with an expert hand, and she vaguely heard him orgasming as well, his cock spurting, his mouth attached to the curve of her neck and marking her.

She came down slowly, eyes locked on Warren's and watching carefully to see what he'd do next. There was something in his eyes that she'd never seen before, but she desperately wanted to keep seeing it. Carefully, Layla moved off Warren's waist to adjust her clothes.

"So... I'm guessing you're not who I thought you were?" she asked, picking up her knives and re-sheathing one.

"Could say the same about you, baby," Warren replied languidly, still coming down from his orgasmic bliss.

"Don't call me baby," Layla snapped, sick to death of the awful pet name.

"Fine then,  _hippie_ ," he said, smirking when she didn't protest.

Hippie was better than baby by far.

"How many people have you killed?" Warren asked.

"You first," Layla replied, gripping her knife.

"Five. You?"

"Three."

"Want to double it?" Warren asked, straightening up and zipping his jeans.

"How?" she asked warily, not entirely sure what he meant.

"Come with me, and we'll kill them together."

Layla blinked in surprise, looking over Warren and seeing him in a new light entirely. She knew that he was asking her to leave the state with him, and for a moment, she thought of her mother and her response to Princeton. Imagine if she knew she was leaving the state to go on a killing spree instead! But Layla had no idea if she and Warren could even  _work_  together. Now that they knew each other's darker sides, they might not be compatible.

"We'll trial someone from inside first. If I say no, you let me go, and I do the same with you, deal?" Layla offered.

"Deal," Warren agreed.

Layla led the way into the warehouse once more, and this time they both waited by the bar, looking out to the dance floor. Layla scoped out their potential victims, and after a few minutes, nudged Warren, indicating towards the girl.

"Purple haired chick?" he clarified, and Layla nodded in return.

She grabbed Warren's hand and they headed over to where the purple haired girl was dancing. Without a word, they both slotted themselves around the girl, moving together as if they'd done this sort of thing before. Layla noticed that the girl was surprised at their sudden presence, but was drunk enough not to push them away. She grinned and licked her lips, drawing the girl in close to kiss her. She could feel Warren's gaze on them, hot and intense, and his hand gripped at Layla's waist as he rocked up against the girl between them.

"Want to leave with us?" Layla asked, the purple haired girl nodding eagerly and immediately.

The music drowned out the girl's screams, Warren holding her as Layla buried her knife in the girl five times, making sure to twist the blade on the way out just to hear her scream. Layla watched as the light faded from the girl's eyes. A second later, Warren dropped the lifeless body to the gravel floor beneath them, and pulled Layla in close to kiss her again, teeth nipping at her lips. She kissed him back eagerly and just as fierce, the girl's blood dripping from her knife. Layla decided that they just might be compatible after all.

"Where to next?" she asked.

"Wherever you like; ladies first," he replied with a grin of his own.

Layla grinned; she knew just where she wanted to start.

...

The end.


End file.
